The Iraqi stretch Mercedes pulled up to the door, preceded and pursued by a motorcycle guard from the French Foreign Ministry. Once again Aziz was accompanied by Gérard Touvain, the French Foreign Ministry liaison. Millikan strode forward to be presented by Touvain to Aziz. After a perfunctory handshake with the Frenchman, Millikan gave his best warm, two-handed grasp to his old colleague.
“Mne ochen’ zhal’,” Millikan said to Aziz. I’m terribly sorry.
“We did our best, mon vieux,” Aziz responded, and the two entered the Crillon arm in arm. Touvain tagged behind, pointing out for whoever would listen the “belle lumière” of the hotel. They soon came to the same small, exquisite dining room where they had lunched in March. Millikan introduced Richard Dellinger. Aziz introduced his chief assistant—a new man, coarser and meaner looking than the one Millikan had seen in March. Touvain was politely told to buzz off.
On the small table was a tray with a bottle of iced Stoli, beluga caviar, and plates of black bread, butter, onions, chopped hard-boiled eggs. “It looks as though it will be some time before we will meet this way again,” Millikan said with honest regret in his voice.
“Unfortunately, you couldn’t be more correct, Jim,” Aziz responded.
“A toast,” Millikan said when the shot glasses were filled with the now syrupy Stoli. “To diplomacy, when you and I will work to bring Iraq back into the community of nations after Saddam’s inevitable defeat.”
“I’m afraid that I will not be able to drink to that,” Aziz responded, setting his glass on the table untouched. “I do not share your opinion of the military situation in Kuwait, mon vieux. Before your leader launches a foolhardy assault on the new Iraqi province of Kuwait, he should understand that we have developed a new weapon. If we are forced to use this weapon by the aggressive behavior of other nations, it will cause such terrible casualties in the heart of the illegal Zionist entity that the Jews will have no choice but to enter the war—which will destroy your coalition and bring the Arabs into a unified front led by my nation. And it will cause such terrible casualties among your forces that Americans, who do not have the stomach for brave enterprises, will demand an end to this stupid and thoughtless aggression.”
Millikan, holding his shot glass full of icy, syrupy Stoli, listened calmly to his peroration, thought for a moment, and then downed it anyway—a breach of etiquette that startled Aziz. “Mr. Dellinger?”
Dellinger stepped forward and pulled a piece of fax paper from his pocket. It was a brief typewritten document written on the stationery of the Royal Canadian Air Force.
“Would you care to share the latest intelligence with His Excellency?” Millikan continued.
Richard Dellinger read the document, refolded the paper, and put it back in his pocket. Aziz slumped against the back of his Louis XV chair. He looked first at Dellinger and then at Millikan.
“Hennessey?”
“Please, Tariq. You offend me.”
“Then who? You blocked any action in Washington with your task force. You caused the analyst who understood what was happening to be isolated. Who?”
Dellinger stepped forward and said, “We are not at liberty to divulge that. You understand—sources and methods.”
Aziz sat there with hands folded for a moment and blinked. Then he stood, filled the four glasses, and said, “A toast—to my colleague Jim Millikan, who proved to be more resourceful than I had thought.”
Millikan did not raise his glass. He considered this for a moment.
What the hell. In the past he had not received due credit for some of his finer accomplishments. And in the game that he and Aziz were playing, it was useful for Aziz to think that this was all Millikan’s doing. He raised his glass and drained it.
They carefully prepared and savored their slices of black bread with butter, onions, pieces of egg, and caviar. Millikan proposed a toast. “To our continued association, Tariq, despite this unfortunate problem between our two countries.”
A half hour later the caviar was gone, the vodka drained, and lunch well under way. Millikan had ordered the same menu as he had in March, as an unspoken symbol of the underlying continuity in the relationship between him and Aziz. He could not help noticing that Aziz ate quickly and seemed impatient for each course to arrive. In light of the new information, he had much work ahead of him.
“Something has come up,” Millikan announced, “and I am afraid that I must rudely cut this meeting short.”
Aziz was visibly relieved and wasted no time getting up. In almost no time they were standing by the side entrance waiting for the Iraqi limousine to pull up.
“There is truly nothing we can do, is there?” Millikan asked, looking at Aziz.
“No, my friend, and I do regard you as my friend. As we have both discovered in the past year, we diplomats really have little control over events.” He paused and mused, “You know, when I was young I always thought that being able to define events meant that you had gained partial control. But I think that maybe Tolstoy had it right. That the Napoleons and great men are no more important in determining history than the most humble soldier in the front lines.”